Chapter 85
From the Journal of Honey Sutton Nov. 25, 1938
… Ollie and Marjorie received a letter from Alice MacFarlane yesterday and they hope it doesn't signal trouble. Alice thanks them for the care they are taking of Jacob and is proud that he is starting to learn his alphabet. She looks forward to seeing him again when she returns to New Bedford for Christmas. What worries Ollie and Marjorie is that while she is here, she would like to talk to them face to face about their proposed adoption.
Max, on the other hand, is walking with a spring in his step these days because in a week's time, the burden of being mayor of New Bedford will be lifted from his shoulders. It's about time too. The poor dear was starting to sag from the weight of all the responsibilities placed on him. Thaddeus Poole ate with us tonight. He was kind enough to say that he appreciated the work Max had done to clear up the financial and administrative mess that Mayor Johnson left before he died. It should be easy to keep things on an even keel if he wins. He doesn't see any need for any major changes.
He was also very complimentary towards my cooking. He seemed genuinely regretful when he refused a second helping of my meatloaf. He even told Max, "I miss being your age. I could eat or drink anything I liked then. Dyspepsia was something that old people had. Now, everything I like is virtually forbidden. Tobacco, alcohol, heavy foods, even a nice cup of tea. Dr. Barlow's diet is great for my health, but my morale is in tatters."
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
As Mother and I left Barcelona, Gottfried Schmitz and his companions in his daring escape were back at San Pedro de Cardenas. On being returned after their capture, they were beaten badly. Then, they were thrown into a small, lightless room with a dirt floor and fed nothing. Their captors continued to starve them for days afterwards and beat them again when they finally pounded on the door screaming for something to eat. The scanty food that did eventually come was no relief from fear. In the months afterwards, they lived in dread of being returned to Germany and the nonexistent mercy of the Nazi secret police.
May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan Nov. 30, 1938
… As the freighter sailed out into the Mediterranean, the fading pinpoint that was all that remained of the lights of Barcelona had almost vanished into darkness. Grace gazed towards it dispiritedly. She had not wanted to leave her vigil by the plain, unvarnished box that contained Van's corpse. When I told her that she could not stay in the hold forever, she actually looked hurt for a moment. However, she did not resist when I urged her to come up on deck with me for some fresh air. I just wish that the change of scenery had raised her spirits even a little.
As we leaned forward against the stern rail, I remembered an act of generosity she had performed on our way to the freighter. We rode down to the harbor in a wagon with Van's box in the bed. The driver was kind enough to offer his sympathies to Grace on her bereavement. Then he shook his head and remarked sadly that there has been so much loss and sorrow because of this war.
His own sister had lost her husband in the first major bombing raid in Barcelona back in March. He tried to help. So did the rest of the family, but it was a hard struggle for her to bring up two children. Grace wasted no time in offering a sheaf of francs for her-Spanish paper money is virtually worthless because of the war-and asking him to convey her sympathies. He promised to do so and thanked her warmly.
It was a fine thing that Grace did, and I told her so as we watched the last thin haze of light from Barcelona disappear leaving only darkness. There was no moon to illuminate the water. Only a handful of distant stars flickered weakly above us.
Grace listened quietly as I told her that I was proud of her. She thanked me politely. "I wish I could believe that it would make any difference," she added with a calm bleakness that made me fear for her. "The Republic is going to fail. Franco's armies are going to come marching into Barcelona and crush any hope that poor woman and her children might have for a better future. All they have to look forward to is spending the rest of their lives in fear and poverty under the heel of a vindictive mass murderer. Kindness gets swallowed up by that kind of barbarism like a stone sinking into a lake."
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
Mother refused to accept my woeful outlook. "Without acts of kindness like yours, however small, however futile they may seem, there would be nothing but barbarism. It's easy to be kind when times are good, and it costs nothing. It takes a rare moral courage to be kind when times are hard and it's so much easier to think only of yourself and your own."
I looked into my soul and found only a resigned bitterness there with which to answer her. "Van had courage and kindness. What good did they do him?"
Mother's eyes filled with hurt and concern. "They made him worthy of your love for him."
"Yes, and he's still just as dead as if he'd stayed a despicable person."
"I know how much it hurts to lose someone you loved so deeply," Mother sympathized. "I felt the same way when your father died."
Today, I can cherish my mother's attempt to bring me hope and comfort, but then, it made little impression on my desolation. "Yes. Father, Jack, Judd, Del, Jim, … Van." It was like driving a knife into my chest to say that last name. "One way or another, it seems like all the men in my life end up leaving me."
Next Week: The woman from Prince Edward Island. Poole for mayor.